“You’re in the blast radius of people who are.”
He lifts a spare chef’s jacket and holds it up between us. Narrow shoulders. Straight cut. Buttons placed by someone with a great deal of faith.
I study it. Then look back at him.
“There is no version of reality,” I say calmly, “where that closes over my boobs.”
The kitchen does not go silent, but it does slow. A knife pauses mid chop. Someone at the sink develops a sudden fascination with the wall.
Tom freezes, jacket still raised. His eyes flick to my chest and away again like they’ve brushed something dangerous.
I tilt my head. “You all right there?”
“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just… I wasn’t… that’s not…”
He trails off, jaw working like he’s trying to chew his way out of the sentence.
I glance meaningfully at the jacket. Then back at his face. “You run a kitchen. You massage chicken breasts for a living. But the mere mention of mine has you short-circuiting.”
A snort escapes from somewhere behind us. Tom closes his eyes for half a second, like a man counting to ten and failing at three.
“That is not the same thing,” he says, mortified and defensive in equal measure.
“Oh,” I say lightly. “Explain the difference. I’m fascinated.”
He splutters. Actually splutters. “I am not explaining breasts to you in my kitchen.”
“Pity,” I say. “I was hoping for a lecture. Diagrams, maybe.”
His ears are fully red now. He lowers the jacket slightly, then realises that looks worse and raises it again, which somehow makes the whole thing more tragic.
“I was just trying to make sure you were safe,” he says. “That’s it.”
“Mm,” I hum. “Well, if you force me into this one, I’m not sure anyone will be safe given that I will flash the whole kitchen brigade.”
Another laugh is smothered behind a chopping board. Tom shoots a glare in that direction. “Focus.”
I lean in a fraction, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “You do realise that if you keep going this red, I’m going to assume you’ve never had to talk to a woman with a body before.”
“That is wildly inaccurate,” he says, affronted.
“Is it?”
Before he can respond, a woman steps neatly into the space beside us, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Dark hair pulled back, sharp eyes, calm expression. She takes in the scene in one glance. The frozen jacket. Tom’s colouring. My expression.
Her mouth twitches.
“Chef,” she says pleasantly. “You want to put that down before you drop it.”
Tom looks at her like she’s thrown him a rope. “Yes. Thank you.”
She turns to me. “You’re Chloe.”
“I am.”
She nods once. “Angela. Sous chef. And before anyone else embarrasses themselves further, you want this.”
She holds a brown, simple apron out to me. Longer. Wider. Suitable for plus size bodies. Clearly sourced by someone with common sense.
